The Namesake cab-3 Read online

  ‘We were talking about Megale’s arrest.’

  ‘ Genau. It was a very long time ago. His arrest was important, because it was one of the very first, and the authorities finally became interested in the invisible new Italian Mafia. A colleague of mine wrote a special report on the Ndrangheta in Germany. Also, just after my arrival in the BKA, a major inquiry was launched into the Ndrangheta investments in Russia and, in particular, Gazprom, but you know who one of the top managers in Gazprom is?’

  ‘No,’ said Blume.

  ‘Gerhard Schroeder, our former Chancellor. So that investigation did not go very far. Then it was discovered the Ndrangheta was funding some politicians. There was a funding scandal with Thomas Schauble, a regional minister, brother of our current Minister of Finance in Merkel’s government. These are complex and delicate matters, and it is very difficult to find out the truth. In fact, most of the accusations are false, but it slows things down and makes it difficult for us to proceed.’

  Now it was Weissmann’s turn to stray off topic.

  ‘Welcome to the world of Italian organized crime,’ said Blume. ‘Its three weapons of choice are confusion, intimidation and corruption. But it will always choose confusion first. Nobody really knows who’s on whose side. Everything is infiltrated.’

  ‘They cannot infiltrate the BKA,’ said Weissmann in definitive tones.

  ‘That is a very comforting thought,’ said Blume. ‘We were talking about this young woman Dagmar?’

  ‘Yes. Three months after testifying, Dagmar Schiefer, who had just turned twenty-six, disappeared, like the earth had swallowed her. This is 1993. She was still living with her parents in Dusseldorf at the time. One Friday evening, she did not come home. They thought she must have gone to a party or something and did not report her missing until Sunday. But they never saw their girl again. No one saw anything, heard anything. The local police had nothing.’

  ‘ Lupara bianca is what we call it in Italy. It means “white shotgun”. When the Mafia disappears a person for ever, leaving no trace. Usually, they dissolve the body in acid. Sodium hydroxide, I think.’

  He managed to pass a line of cars and move up about twenty places, but the van he had spotted had disappeared from sight.

  ‘We think Agazio Curmaci killed Dagmar Schiefer. He was working closely with Domenico Megale at the time of the disappearance. In those days Curmaci was Megale’s driver. It is the closest we can get to associating Curmaci with an act of violence in Germany, but there was never enough to prosecute. A few days after Dagmar vanished, he was questioned and released within hours. Megale was in police custody at the time.’

  ‘So, you’re saying Curmaci killed this Dagmar back in the early 1990s. Has the investigation been reopened?’

  ‘We do not close cases such as these, but they do eventually lose priority. Last week, a former colleague in the BKA, Sebastian Eich, a man who has since retired, received a call from Dagmar’s mother. She called the BKA and asked to speak specifically to him, saying it was of the utmost importance. They put her in contact because she was so insistent. Eich and Dagmar’s mother had met many years before, you see. When the BKA finally intervened to explain to Dagmar’s parents — and to her fiance — that their daughter might have been killed by a new Mafia organization, Eich was the person who did it. That was in 1994, more than a year after Dagmar disappeared.’

  ‘I suppose they heard Megale had been released from jail, and all the old pain resurfaced. Is that what this is?’

  ‘Yes, they knew he had been released from jail, and that is connected. Before she disappeared, Dagmar Schiefer had been planning to move out of her family home to live with her fiance. He was a student, doing a post-graduate degree in archaeology. After Dagmar’s disappearance, he quit university, promising her parents that he would find out what happened and bring them proof that she was dead, find out who killed her, discover where she died. But he never did. At least not yet.’

  ‘That boyfriend will have forgotten now. It’s a lifetime ago. Unless he’s unable to let go… Oh, God. Wait — ’

  ‘I have no time to wait. This boyfriend has not forgotten. He visited Dagmar’s mother the day before she called Eich. He even asked her not to mention his visit to anyone, but she was worried he was about to do something stupid, which is why she called Eich.’

  ‘And federal agents in Germany are at the beck and call of old women with presentiments?’

  ‘ Unterbrechen Sie mich bitte nicht, Kommissar.’

  ‘Then get to the point, because I think I’ve already reached it.’

  ‘So you will have realized that Megale received a visit from Dagmar’s boyfriend, and that this visit had been observed by us.’

  As Weissmann said this, the faded pictures of the young woman in the camper, the sad postcard pictures of journeys past flashed into the front of his mind, the torn Madonna, Konrad’s pale blue eyes, his personal quixotic mission.

  ‘Konrad Hoffmann,’ said Blume. ‘The boyfriend is Konrad Hoffmann. He wants the man who killed his girlfriend, and he has waited until now.’

  ‘Yes,’ Weissmann was saying, ‘Konrad Hoffmann. He quit his degree, joined the Deutsche Hochschule der Polizei and then the BKA a few years later. At this time, a few people did notice his career choice, also because for a brief period he was under suspicion as a fiance always will be in these circumstances, but then as the years went by and he carried out his work very well, no one on the force thought about his past, and he never spoke of it.’

  Hoffmann distracted everyone with the idea of the Camorra and the Ndrangheta cooperating in toxic dumping, because that is a real phenomenon and part of a real investigation. There was a lot of sides to consider, and that is why no one looked into the deep past. We kept looking at what he does, not at what he used to be.’

  Bullshit, thought Blume. The BKA had an agent with a grudge who had decided to set out on a mission against Curmaci; the Italians had the perfect idiot counterweight, him, who had also set out on a personal quest against Curmaci. Two loose cannons, each used to cancel the other out. He could appreciate the elegance of the solution, but felt humiliated at being played in this way. At least Konrad’s quest was noble.

  ‘Massimiliani, are you still there?’

  ‘I am, but Weissmann’s gone.’

  ‘Why now? Why am I learning this only now? Answer me honestly for once.’

  ‘No one knew. We are all learning this now.’

  ‘OK, why now for Konrad? Why is he acting now, after all these years?’

  ‘Honestly? Your guess is as good as mine,’ said Massimiliani. ‘But the most likely answer is Konrad needed confirmation from Megale that Curmaci was the killer, and perhaps permission to act. Maybe he just wanted to know where Dagmar’s body was. But he can’t have approached Megale and demanded any of these things without giving something back. He has something on them. So that is what the BKA want to talk to him about now. Finally, they have a strategy.’

  ‘He built up his own investigative file on Megale,’ said Blume. ‘He told me. He used it to coax information from the old man.’

  ‘I hope he planned for his investigation to be made available posthumously, if he thinks he can go down to Calabria, single out Curmaci, and revenge himself.’

  ‘Maybe he’s looking for information instead of revenge,’ said Blume.

  ‘He won’t survive. He is completely and voluntarily on his own. Megale sent him down to where he could be killed without the BKA being able to do anything about it, nor even investigate afterwards. Meanwhile, Megale himself stays in Germany with a perfect alibi.’

  Blume cleared the crest of a hill. A narrow stripe of road with two-way traffic stretched out below him, visible all the way down to the black oval mouth of a tunnel cut into a hillside of limestone so blindingly white it hurt his eyes to look at it. A red car travelling towards him came shooting out of the tunnel just as a two-tone camper van disappeared into it.

  42

  On the road i
n Calabria

  Blume had never been able to distinguish between the myths and the realities surrounding the Ndrangheta, the Sacra Corona Unita, Cosa Nostra, the Camorra and the Stidda, but at least he knew he didn’t know. Had Konrad, the German who thought he understood Italians and could speak Neapolitan dialect, failed to see the elaborate hoax? The Ndrangheta loved its symbols but kept them internal. A signed piece of paper from Megale would never turn a German federal policeman into a figure the Ndrangheta could trust even for a moment. Surely he knew that?

  The road had narrowed further to the width of a country lane. It was going to be like this more or less until the very end. Hundreds of kilometres down to the tip of the boot at an average speed of what, fifty kilometres an hour? Berlusconi had promised a massive bridge at the end of it, connecting Reggio Calabria to Sicily. Presumably the Ndrangheta would build the first span, from the mainland towards Sicily, Cosa Nostra would build the span from Sicily, and they’d never meet in the middle.

  He froze his thoughts as a gap opened in the oncoming traffic, and he moved up nine more places. The road now followed a squiggling line and he could not see far ahead. But half an hour later, he thought he saw the camper van, now only half a mile ahead. The phone beside him started buzzing, but he ignored it: he needed two hands on the wheel now. Dipping the right wheels of the car into a ditch on the verge made shallow by the rubble and rubbish that filled it, he managed to create his own emergency lane and pass an entire line of vehicles on the inside. The wheels rumbled and the side panel and fender on the right were taking a hell of a battering, and then he hit an invisibly low divider, but somehow managed to keep going and, after ten minutes, came right up behind the camper van. He swung back into lane behind it, and it was then he saw the yellow-and-black number plate and the ‘NL’ sticker.

  Dutch holidaymakers. Was there any corner of the planet that had not been reached by a Dutch family in a caravan? And now that he was directly behind it, Blume realized the van was twenty years too modern but made to look retro-chic. Finally, he accepted that Konrad had gone.

  The land flashing by was soft and lush, the vegetation so fertile that it had invaded the verges. He picked up speed and went racing past a sign indicating Sibari. That was on the opposite coast, the Ionian Sea. If it was signposted here, then he had to be passing one of the narrowest parts of the peninsula. It was possible that Konrad had turned off here. It was not the most efficient way to cross the narrow neck of land to the other side, but it was precisely the sort of mistake Konrad would make. Or maybe he would have been unable to resist the allure of the name. The ancient Greek colonists of the town, the Sybarites, used to be renowned for sex, luxury, wealth and power. Sibari had come down in the world, but they were still there, the ancient Greeks, now Calabrians.

  A ping followed by an orange warning light told him he needed petrol soon.

  Twenty minutes later, he pulled into an Agip service station, handed the keys to the attendant, and asked for a full tank. A blue-and-white estate car of the highway police, with two uniformed officers in it, pulled up beside him. Blume ignored them. The driver waved at him and, when Blume still failed to respond, got out and walked around.

  ‘Commissioner Blume? We were asked to… um, accompany you.’

  Blume paid the attendant and reversed out of the forecourt in the direction of the snack bar. He got out, holding the phone Massimiliani had given him in his hand. The police car made a U-turn and followed. Casually, it stopped just close enough to block Blume’s exit.

  The driver pointed at his warped fender. ‘Did you have an accident?’

  ‘No, no, that’s… collateral damage,’ said Blume. ‘Accompany me where?’

  ‘Cosenza.’

  ‘Right,’ said Blume. ‘Are you driving me or…?’

  ‘It would be good if you were to get into our car. In the front seat, of course, sir.’

  ‘I can’t drive behind you?’

  ‘Well, technically…’ The policeman bounced the toe of his boot against the tyre of the police car a few times as he avoided Blume’s gaze. ‘Technically, you’re driving a stolen vehicle, sir.’

  ‘And to think I just put 70 euros worth of super unleaded in the car. I’ve a good mind to suck it out again.’

  Blume opened the passenger door, nodded to the policeman seated there who scowled, but got out and sat in the back. For a moment, he imagined himself kicking the policeman out, leaping into the driver’s seat, and roaring away.

  Just as he was about to get in, his phone rang. He put up a finger warning them to wait, cupped the phone to his ear, and wandered off towards the air pumps.

  It was Caterina.

  ‘Can you be quick about this? I’ve got friends waiting.’

  ‘Still on your top-secret mission, then? Besides getting away from me and avoiding difficult decisions, what else persuaded you to place yourself under the command of a Carabiniere conducting an operation without any apparent judicial oversight? A boyish sense of adventure, was it?’

  ‘Sometimes, magistrates can be called in on a need-to-know basis. They are not always to be trusted,’ said Blume.

  ‘You got that right,’ said Caterina. ‘I can tell from the tone of your voice you still want to play it like you’re controlling events. Fine. I just thought you’d be interested to know the magistrate in Milan who’s conducting the investigation into the Arconti case is Ezio Bazza. He’s also looking into the killing of the assassins, which you forgot to mention to me when you found out, so thanks for that.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure… sorry.’

  ‘A “sorry”: well, it’s something,’ she said. ‘Meanwhile, another magistrate in Milan, investigating the case of a missing girl, came across Arconti’s wedding ring.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Blume. ‘That’s really good.’

  ‘It gets better. The ring was found in a sequestered construction site belonging to the Mancuso family.’ She let the news sink in.

  ‘So they have found the site where Arconti was killed?’

  ‘Almost certainly. The technicians are still working on it.’

  ‘The property is owned by the Mancuso family?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The Mancusos are allied to Megale,’ said Blume. ‘Tony Megale married into the Mancuso family. The wife died of cancer. They had a son…’

  ‘… called Enrico,’ finished Caterina. ‘He lives with his aunt and uncle in Locri, down the road from where Curmaci’s wife and kids live. Panebianco’s been helping me with the research.’

  ‘That Mancuso news is definitely interesting,’ said Blume. He picked up the air hose and blasted it at a spider on its way from asphalt to a patch of crabgrass. The spider rolled itself into a ball and allowed itself to be blown away, and Blume found he had just covered his hand in filthy oil.

  ‘Is it so interesting that it might cause you to doubt your theory that Curmaci is responsible for ordering the death of the namesake? Because from where I am sitting, it looks like Tony Megale or his father is behind it.’

  ‘I don’t follow you,’ said Blume. He did, but he wanted to hear someone else voice his own thoughts.

  ‘Were you even listening? The victim was taken to a property owned by the Mancuso family. Tony Megale married into that family. His wife

  …’

  ‘… died from cancer, they have a son called Enrico. I know, but why does any of this exonerate Curmaci?’ demanded Blume.

  ‘Because, since they used a Mancuso property and got Mancuso help, it suggests Tony Megale carried out the killing, or ordered it.’

  ‘Yeah, but why?’ said Blume. ‘Tony Megale had no compelling reason to kill Arconti’s namesake.’

  ‘Maybe Tony wanted to put Agazio Curmaci in an awkward position just before the Polsi summit. Compromise him, cast doubt on his judgment, and make it too dangerous for anyone to appoint him as head of operations in Germany,’ said Caterina. ‘Maybe he just hates Curmaci. Maybe, Alec, there are people out there who will do
things, like forge confessions, so that the blame falls on others.’

  ‘You are always so moral, Caterina. We’re talking about someone killing a guy just to embarrass his rival.’

  ‘You’ve always told me that people don’t need compelling reasons to kill.’

  ‘I have? How wise-sounding of me. How about this: Tony Megale killed the Arconti namesake, just like you say, but he did it because Curmaci told him to.’

  ‘Is Curmaci so powerful he can order Megale to do this?’

  ‘You’ve made enough good points for one call, Caterina, bearing in mind that others may be listening into this conversation,’ said Blume, as he turned and headed back towards the forecourt where the highway cops were both eating Cornetto ice cream and making a great show of not watching his movements from behind their sunglasses.

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’

  ‘I realize that I think now I may have been wrong in some of my assumptions and a few of my actions.’

  ‘At last!’

  Blume pulled a windscreen squeegee out of a bucket and slipped his oily hand into the filthy water, then, unable to bear the disequilibrium of having one hand dry and the other one wet, transferred the phone into the wet one, which was now dripping black water up his arm, and plunged his clean hand into the bucket. The cops looked on impassively as he reached for the paper towel dispenser and found it empty.

  ‘You didn’t ask about the wedding ring,’ said Caterina.

  ‘That’s right, I didn’t,’ said Blume, cradling the phone with his shoulder and flicking filth from his fingers.

  ‘He probably took it off himself and dropped it there to leave us a clue.’

  ‘It worked a treat, then,’ said Blume. ‘Good thinking by the actuary.’

  ‘Or he could have taken it off so they wouldn’t rob it from his corpse, or find the name of his wife inscribed inside.’

  ‘Also possibilities,’ said Blume.